The Exiled (14 page)

D
unham watched Dizzy pull out and drive away before he drew down the door.

“Time to work,” he said. “We're going to do this right here.”

They filled four duffel bags, hooked one strap over each shoulder, climbed the steps to the loading dock. Dunham unlocked the door and flicked a switch. Inside was a seemingly endless space broken into workstations, each with its own machinery. The place smelled like it had been hosed down with bleach.

“I'd give you a tour,” Dunham said. “But what the fuck do I know about glass?”

Raney followed him through a maze of furnaces and conveyor belts.

“That foreman I mentioned? He's the guy you beat the shit out of. Spike. This started as his parole gig. Now he's boss of the worker bees. I said I needed a space to get some shit done. I didn't say what shit, but unless you damaged his brain he must have more or less figured it out. Spike wouldn't set me up, though. He's the only one of my fighters who wouldn't. That's why I let him come back. Normally, one loss and they're finished. I wish you'd taken that Cobra prick. The guy's a colossal fuck-up, and he's boring as hell to watch. But rules are rules. I can't cut him loose until someone puts him down.”

The drafting table sat in a workstation at the far end of the floor. Dunham had adjusted the surface so it lay flat, stocked the cubicle with Saran wrap, razor blades, baking soda, duct tape.

“The morning crew gets in at five. We've got about four hours of work here, so let's keep the bathroom breaks to a minimum. If someone shows early, they'd have to make it across the floor before they got to us. In which case we clean up fast, and I drop Spike's name.”

He measured out two sheets of Saran wrap, sliced open a brick, spilled half onto his sheet and the other half onto Raney's.

“That's a pretty big cut,” Raney said.

“Yeah, and the bitch of it is, Farlow's inbreeds will step on it again. The tree people of Maine are in for a very slight buzz.”

They worked in quiet until the chopping and sifting and wrapping turned rhythmic and the bricks seemed to materialize on their own.

“I must have done this a thousand times,” Dunham said, “but never for myself. If this goes right, it could be the start of a new era. The Dunham era. No more whipping boy. I gotta give props, Deadly: I'm glad you knocked me off that stool. I owe you. Don't think I don't know. I'm not like my douche-bag uncle. I won't hold you down so you have to keep coming back. You'll get a third of everything. And if one day you've had enough, you just walk away. I won't come after you. Not unless you talk, which I know you'd never do. I'll admit I had my doubts with the Mora situation, but then I thought about it. You and him were both fighters. That's like a brotherhood. So shaking the guy down was hard for you. You're loyal. I get it. I'm loyal, too. And I mean to people, not just money. This isn't an in-for-life thing we have here. It's time for that old-school bullshit to die a fast death. If a guy wants to move on, I say let him move on. As long as he's not fucking you over.”

“So these jobs we've been doing have all been for your uncle?”

“Like you didn't know. When you showed up looking for work, I wondered about that. If you knew who I was, then you knew who he was. So why come to me and not him? Then I figured it was a parole thing. You ain't looking to do your full bit, so why not pick the guy who's already buried? Meno's got eyes on him twenty-four seven. You made the smart move.”

Meno, Raney thought. It's out in the open now.

They drove in two cars, Raney carrying one duffel bag, Dunham the others. Two traffic jams, two stops for gas, one meal at a drive-through, three lines of coke. Nine hours total. They set the meet in a state park, at a campground just off the coast. Raney pulled in first. Dunham hung back, parked in a spread of beach grass. If the buyers seemed legit, Raney would wave him on. If they didn't, Dunham would have Raney's back.

There were three of them gathered around a fire and drinking from oversized aluminum cans. They'd pitched a tent, parked a rusted-out pickup on the periphery. Anyone driving by would see a clutch of good old boys kicking back on a weekend afternoon. They even looked like a brood Farlow might have sprung from: tall and burly, with the same dull-brown hair. DA Stone was thorough, even on short notice.

He pulled straight up to the fire. The undercovers fanned out around his car, two with hunting rifles, the third with a shotgun. Raney rolled down his window. The one with the shotgun moved closer. Raney kept his hands on the wheel. For a moment he forgot he was dealing with cops, forgot he was a cop himself.

“I thought there was two of you,” the man said.

“Dunham's hanging back. I'm Raney.”

“You mean Dixon? We saw a picture. Step on out. Let's make this look right.”

Raney put his hands on the hood, took his turn being patted down.

“What should I call you?” Raney asked.

“You don't call me shit.”

“You local?”

“We work the Bronx. Different precincts. Now open the trunk.”

“I've got to see the money first.”

“Back of the pickup. Look but don't touch.”

Raney started for the truck. The two with rifles watched him. The one who did the talking searched the dirt road beyond the campsite.

“I see him,” he said. “It really just the two of you?”

“Yeah.”

“The guy's got balls.”

Raney gave the signal. Dunham coasted in, took a long sip from a twenty-ounce coffee, and stepped from the car. The lead undercover leveled his shotgun.

“Whoa there, boss,” Dunham said. “I come in peace.”

“You'll leave in pieces you don't take it nice and slow.”

Raney noticed an abrupt shift in accent, from the Bronx to northern New England.

“A punster,” Dunham said. “I like it. Sorry if I move too quick. Must be a city thing.”

“That some kind of crack?”

“Nah—you kidding me? It's beautiful here. You can smell Canada.”

“Put your hands up there on the hood.”

“I'm not going to do that,” Dunham said.

“Come again?”

“I don't like men with beards touching me. It's a thing. You want to know what I got on me, just ask.”

“How about I save myself some money and squeeze this trigger?”

“You could do that. But then this would be a one-time deal, which you don't want. Plus you'd have the hassle of getting rid of the bodies. The cars, too. And there are people who know where I am and who I'm with. Shoot me and chances are you won't live out the week. So the Glock I'm carrying stays where it is.”

“You're a cocky SOB.”

“Yeah, people don't like me. So let's just swap what we have to swap and I'll get the fuck out of your ponytail.”

The lead undercover spat tobacco.

“One of you boys fetch that sack.”

The man nearest the pickup pulled out a green trash bag with stretch marks at the handle. He walked over, threw it at Dunham's feet.

“I don't bite,” Dunham said.

“You did, I'd put you down.”

Dunham grinned.

“If you plan on counting it,” the lead said, “then get started. Meanwhile have your boy here fetch us what's ours.”

Dunham opened the bag, peered inside.

“You heard him, boy,” he said. “Fetch.”

An hour later, they were sitting in Dunham's car, snorting blow and sharing a drive-through combo meal.

“This is solid,” Dunham said. “This could keep us earning for a long time. The hardest part is driving the speed limit.”

“I thought the hardest part was staying up forty-eight hours straight.”

“Don't whine, Deadly. I know you've never seen a payday anywhere near this one. Tomorrow you can go back to sleeping in.”

Raney smiled.

“How do you plan to spend yours?”

“I been thinking about that. We have to put aside enough for the next shipment. The class move would be to launder the rest in real estate. But I've got other projects I need to fund.”

“What projects?”

“Just one, really. And it's more of a war than a project.”

“A war?”

“Call it a hostile takeover. The kind of hostility I have in mind costs money. And then when it's done, you've gotta be able to show the soldiers left standing that you'll look after them better than the last guy. You've got to show them there was a reason for doing what you did.”

“Jesus. You're talking about your uncle.”

“The prick has been tops on my list ever since my aunt married him. A guy threatens to kill you enough times and you have to figure that sooner or later he'll get around to it. I've got nothing to lose and a fuckload to gain.”

“Why move now?”

“Cause I've got two things I never had before: steady capital and a general.”

“A general?”

“General Deadly. You ready for battle?”

J
oseph Vignola lived in an adobe bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac. The lights were on in the front of the house. A Subaru sedan sat in the driveway, its back window covered in pine needles.

“Looks like he's home,” Bay said. “What do we do when he answers?”

“If he's six foot seven and rail thin, we ask if he's seen anyone suspicious in the neighborhood and hope he says no.”

“And if he's short, bald, and stocky?”

“Then we hope he doesn't kill us.”

The steps were lined with potted cacti. Plants hung in baskets on either side of the door. Bay rang the bell.

“Police, Mr. Vignola. Open up.”

No answer. Bay waited, then knocked on the door with the side of his fist.

“You think he's ducking us?”

“Maybe he's in the shower. I'll go have a look in back.”

“Shouldn't we stick together?”

“He's a schoolteacher, Bay. This isn't the guy.”

There was no fence sectioning off the yard, just a long open space shared by the neighbors on either side. Vignola was allotted a small patio furnished with lawn chairs and a barbecue. The vertical blinds over the sliding glass door were drawn, but the door was open. Raney parted the slats, called hello. No response. He stepped inside.

An island separated a kitchen to the left from a dining area to the right. A small metal wine rack hung above the island. The counters and cabinet tops were covered with misshapen vases and imperfectly glazed bowls. More student work hung on the far wall. Some of the paintings were framed.

Raney stepped through an arched doorway and into the living area.

“Mr. Vignola,” he called.

He saw the blood before he saw the body, pools and rivulets blending with the Saltillo tile. A man was bound to a plain wooden chair in the center of the room, zip ties around his hands and feet, rope holding up his torso. Raney pulled his gun, kept an eye on the staircase to his right as he walked a wide circle around the blood, then stood in front of a partially dismembered Joseph Vignola—toes severed, nose and one ear gone, penis fitted through the loops where his belt buckle should have been. His T-shirt was torn down the front, and there was a nail hammered into his chest. A small, clear Baggie filled with white powder hung from the nail.

Bay rapped on the window. Raney holstered his gun, opened the door.

“I'm not sure you want to see this,” he said.

“See what? I thought we were ID'ing a schoolteacher.”

“We were.”

“Don't treat me with kid gloves, Raney.”

“Suit yourself.”

He stepped aside.

“Jesus, Mary, and…”

Bay stopped himself.

“Makes a slit throat look like a love tap,” he said.

“He took his time with this one,” Raney said. “There was no Rivera to interrupt him.”

“How much of it do you figure happened while he was alive?”

“All of it, except maybe the nail. Looks like he stopped when Vignola stopped breathing. He left an ear intact, didn't touch the fingers.”

“We couldn't have missed him by much.”

“Hard to say. A few hours. Maybe more.”

Bay bent forward, inspected the Baggie.

“Well, we found about an ounce of our missing dope.”

“Yeah. Let's hope it doesn't all turn up the same way.”

“I've got to call this in. We're out of jurisdiction here.”

“All right,” Raney said. “I'm going to take a look around.”

“Shouldn't we wait for the locals?”

“He isn't waiting for us.”

The second floor was carpeted. Raney slipped out of his boots, took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. Family pictures hung in the hallway, one of a young man who could only be Vignola dressed in cap and gown and flanked by beaming parents. The young Vignola was handsome, with a cleft in his chin and long dark bangs sweeping over his forehead. He looked happy, full of promise. His mother and father each had an arm around him, his father's large hand gripping the boy's shoulder, pulling him close.

The first door on the left opened to a small bedroom so tidy and impersonal that Raney wondered if Vignola rented it out. The dresser drawers were empty, the closet stocked with linens. A print of one of Monet's water-lily paintings hung above the bed. Raney moved on. In the bathroom at the end of the hallway, he found prescription bottles of Amitiza, Klonopin, Ambien: bad stomach, bad nerves, bad sleep. He ran a gloved finger over the labels, left the bottles in the cabinet.

Vignola had done most of his living in the master bedroom. A cluttered desk with an ancient-looking computer took up one corner. The bed was unmade, the floor littered with laundry. On the nightstand, framed photos of Vignola with another man stood arranged in a progression that looked to span more than twenty years. The oldest showed them holding hands at the Grand Canyon; the most recent showed them kissing on the steps of Notre Dame. Physically, the boyfriend was Vignola's opposite: short, blond, overweight. A single white candle and a plain silver ring sat among the photos. A final portrait hung on the wall above the shrine. It was taken in black-and-white and showed Vignola's lover sitting up in his hospital bed, a bandanna wrapped around his forehead, tubes running from his veins. The man did not appear afraid or angry or in pain. Instead, his expression was loving, tender. He was looking somewhere to the left of the camera. At Joseph. Somehow there could be no doubt.

Raney turned to the dresser, uncovered a small bag of weed tucked into a pile of sweaters, a bong stashed beneath a column of neatly folded boxer shorts. Klonopin, Ambien, marijuana. Had the anxiety started before or after his partner died?

In the walk-in closet, Raney found a long shelf dedicated exclusively to high school yearbooks. He took one up, memorized the name and address of the school, read through the inscriptions:

Mr. V., Thank you for all your support and kindness over the last four years. You're the only one of them who's one of us.

Mr. V., This place would suck without you. It sucks with you, but a lot less.

Mr. V., I never knew my art was any good until you told me. Thank you again for everything. I won't forget.

Raney heard the sirens arriving out front. He peered from behind the window shade: squad cars, an ambulance, a fire truck. Why did they always send a fire truck? He hurried downstairs, slipped back into his boots.

“Here's the cavalry,” Bay said.

“You think you can handle them without me?”

“Where are you going?”

“Vignola's school.”

“It's summer.”

“I'm looking for the after-school crowd.”

“All right,” Bay said. “I'll show them in.”

“I hope he fought,” Raney said. “I hope he at least took a swipe at the bastard.”

He walked back through the sliding doors, sprinted until he reached the main avenue.

The school looked urban, institutional—not unlike the high school Raney attended. A chain-link fence marked the periphery of a concrete yard comprising basketball courts on one side, handball courts on the other. Raney tucked his tie into his jacket pocket, undid the top buttons of his shirt. There were groups of teenage boys scattered across the lot, some playing Hacky Sack, some on skateboards, some mixing with adults in a game of pickup basketball. He saw only one girl. She sat alone on a bench, wearing a pair of old-fashioned Rollerblades. Raney walked over to her, smiled, held out his badge. She'd been watching the boys on skateboards take turns jumping over a grocery cart. Raney startled her. She stood, tried to speed off, but instead fell face-forward, scraping her hands. She rose to a crouch and glanced around, hoping Raney was the sole witness. He helped her up, set her back on the bench.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” she said.

She was plump, heavily freckled, wore long sleeves and leggings in late July. Public school had not been kind.

“I really am a cop,” Raney said. “All I want is to ask a few questions about one of your teachers.”

She seemed suddenly more alert.

“Which one?”

“Mr. Vignola.”

“The art teacher?”

“Yes. Have you taken any of his classes?”

“Not yet. Freshmen are only allowed to take one elective, and I chose band.”

“So you're going to be a sophomore?”

“Yes. Is Mr. V. in trouble?”

“He hasn't done anything wrong,” Raney said. “What can you tell me about him?”

“He's the most popular teacher here. You have to submit a portfolio just to get into his classes, and even then there's a waiting list.”

“You don't seem surprised that I'm asking about him.”

She rolled her eyes.

“What is it I'm missing?”

“Mr. V. is a mellow guy,” she said. “A
really
mellow guy.”

“I see. And everyone knows how he got to be so mellow?”

“It's practically the first thing you hear about freshman year.”

“What do you hear, exactly?”

“That he grows the weed himself and shares it with seniors at graduation. Not every senior—just his favorites. He has a party for them at his house.”

She remembered who Raney was, changed her tone:

“But it's just a rumor,” she said. “No one with any brains believes it. I mean, they'd fire him, and he's been here, like, since before I was born.”

“Don't worry,” Raney said. “I'm not that kind of police.”

“Then what kind are you?”

“Just an ordinary detective.”

He saw her suspicion come rushing back.

“It's almost dinner,” she said. “I've got to go.”

“Thank you for your help.”

He watched her skate awkwardly away, found himself calculating the difference in age between her and Luisa Gonzalez: three, maybe four years. He made a silent wish for his own daughter.

It was nine o'clock before they cleared Santa Fe.

“On the way up here,” Bay said, “you were telling me about a guy named Dunham.”

“It's been a long day,” Raney said. “I don't think I can—”

“I've just got one thing to say.”

“What's that?”

“Some situations can't be helped. Not past the first step you take. And you always think that first step is the right one. At least you do when you're young.”

“Meaning?”

“I enlisted in Vietnam. Uncle Sam didn't have to come chasing me down. I was eighteen and stupid and hadn't traveled more than a hundred square miles in my life. Six months later I'm in the jungle with a group of guys I don't much care for, least of all the one in charge. We were tracking some VC who'd shot at us while we were passing through what we thought was a deserted village. After a while, we come across this cave. It was tall and wide and you could see it was deep, but you couldn't see very far inside. The sergeant waved me and another private over and ordered us to take aim and empty our magazines. We had a damn good idea there were people from that village holed up in there. Women and kids and civilians. But this was what we'd signed on for. We just didn't know it at the time.”

He looked over at Raney.

“You see what I'm saying? You think you're choosing one thing, and you think you have a clear notion of what that thing will be. But you're a kid and you don't have a goddamn clue. You make that first choice, and then the rest are made for you. The only thing you could have done different was not be there in the first place.”

“Does that make you feel better?” Raney said.

“Sometimes,” Bay said.

“The cave might have been empty.”

“Funny: that's what Mavis said.”

“Mavis?”

“She was the only one who'd listen. It embarrasses the hell out of me now. It's so damn clear. I was a mark. The whole thing was probably Jack's idea. Keep someone from the sheriff's office close. All it took was one corny-ass line: ‘Deputy Bay, why is it you look so sad all the time?' And then I'm telling her about parachuting into a mud pit and getting ambushed at the latrine. My mouth wouldn't stop running. She was the only one who wanted to hear it. Or pretended to.

“I was their lookout, and I had no idea. If a wire came from Boston, she knew I'd tell her. But then the wire never came, and she must have gotten bored with me. I threatened to kill Jack when she broke it off. She just looked at me and said, ‘You're not going to kill anyone.' That was the end of it.”

“Must have stung,” Raney said.

“Like hell.”

Raney stared out the window, squinted a distant light into focus.

“There's something I never told you,” he said.

“What's that?”

“I have a daughter.”

Bay smiled. “You're shitting me.”

“I think that's what she would say if I introduced myself. I've never laid eyes on her. Never heard her voice. Her mother and grandfather didn't want me near her. I guess I thought they were right.”

“So you came out here?”

“That's the condensed version.”

“So she's…”

“Eighteen. Give or take a few months.”

Raney expected silence, recrimination.

“I'm sorry,” Bay said. “That's tough. Damn tough. I hope you meet her someday. I hope she gets to meet you. I really do. It's too late for some things, but there's plenty that hasn't started yet.”

“Less every day,” Raney said.